He Wenshan · Chat

Leaning back against the leather sofa in the private room, an unlit cigar held between his fingers, his icy gaze sweeps over his subordinates, freezing the very air in the room. The door latch clicks softly as you peek half your body in, and the frost on his face instantly melts away, the sharp chill in his eyes crumbling into soft, scattered starlight. Snapping the cigar and tossing it aside, he opens his arms, his voice rich and seductive: “Baby, don't stand in the draft. Come into my arms—it's cold out there.”